A Talking To
by Drummers
Summary: A sort of Tribute to Mercator's Seamstress Series. Set after His Lordship Had a Little Lamb. Sybil and Sam Vimes decide to give the 'lovebirds' a hand...


A/N: The fantastic Mercator has written the Seamstress Series, which centres on Vetinari and his private seamstress Hanna Stein. I'm just borrowing them (okay, mainly the idea of the existence of Hanna) for this story.

The undeniably great Mr Pratchett is of course the inventor of the Discworld.

This short story takes place sometime after _His Lordship Had a Little Lamb._ Sybil and Sam Vimes decide to give the 'lovebirds' a hand…

**A Talking To**

It was one of those days, Sam Vimes mused.

'Sam, dear,' said Sybil, brushing some invisible lint off his shoulder, 'you really do need to have a word with him. I'm seeing Hanna this afternoon.'

'Sybil,' Sam groaned. 'He's my boss! You don't lecture your boss!'

'Come on, Sam, a bit more backbone!'

Sam stared darkly over her shoulder. Backbone! Hah! He'd be lucky to still have his back after an attempt to lecture Vetinari! 'Yes, dear, backbone, dear,' he muttered.

Sybil looked at him, sharply. 'I mean it, Sam!'

Sam sighed. 'I know you do,' he said. 'Oh, alright. Just leave it to me, okay?'

Sybil kissed him on his cheek. 'That's my Sam.'

Sam stomped up the stairs to the Oblong Office alone. He'd told a slightly disappointed Carrot that he'd deal with this meeting on his own. Incidentally, Carrot's absence would enable him to give Vetinari a talking to.

'Good morning, your grace,' said the Patrician's clerk, waiting for him in the anteroom. 'His lordship is in quite a good mood. Please attempt to keep it that way, sir.'

Sam raised his eyebrow. 'Is that so? A good mood? Shall I just go back to the Yard, then?'

'Come now, your grace,' said the clerk, and opened the door to the Oblong Office. 'His lordship is expecting you.'

I bet he is, thought Sam. He nodded to the clerk and went inside.

'Good morning, Vimes,' said Vetinari, not looking up from his paperwork.

Oh gods, he _does_ actually sound cheerful, thought Sam. No, no, wait,_ gleeful_, that was the word. He's seeing a joke the rest of the world fails to notice. Smug bastard. It's probably a joke played at my expense, too…

'Is it, sir?' Sam said out loud.

'Is it not, then?' retorted Vetinari.

'I couldn't say, sir. I don't know your usual mornings, so I couldn't compare this one to the normal state of "morning".'

Vetinari stared at Sam. 'Indeed,' he said. 'Do sit down, Vimes.'

Sam sat down in the uncomfortable chair opposite Vetinari.

'I see that the River Patrol boat has been dredged up at last?'

'Yessir. They found it yesterday.'

'And have they found out why it sank, this time?'

'That's easy, sir. Because they let Nobby steer.'

'Indeed? Well, well.' Vetinari paused. 'You seem a little tense, Vimes.'

'Sir?'

'That's what I mean,' sighed Vetinari.

'Sir.' Sam fought with himself for a moment, then gave in. 'I've been sent on a mission, sir.'

'Really? How very interesting. I can't remember doing so.'

'Nosir. A _wifely_ mission, sir.'

Vetinari blinked. 'You mean to say Lady Sybil asked you to do something?'

'That's right, sir.'

'I don't see where I come into it, Vimes.'

'Ah, you are, in fact, to be short about it, you are, to come to the point, the actual, in fact, the actual heart of the matter.'

Vetinari blinked again. Sam had broken into a sweat.

'Um. I'd like to tell you a story, sir,' he said.

'Really?' said Vetinari, checking a small clock on his desk. 'About me?'

'Er, nosir. About, er, _me_, in fact.'

Vetinari sat back in his chair, the very picture of boredom(1). 'Do tell me.'

Sam coughed. 'Well, it's, er, it's about me and Sybil.'

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(1)At least, the Vetinari-type picture of boredom. Which actually doesn't look bored to the untrained eye. But Vimes had had a very special training, indeed.

------------

'I'm all ears,' said Vetinari, staring at the ceiling.

Sam cleared his throat. 'It's like this, erm, we met, right? You remember?'

'I wasn't there, Vimes.'

Sam floundered. 'It was the business of that dragon! That great big beast which set fire to our city!'

'Ah, yes, _that_ dragon. Do carry on.'

'Er, right, so we met, and, er, we liked each other, but, um, we didn't know how to say it. We would _try_ to say it, yes, but we couldn't actually _say_ it, you know.'

'How very _fascinating_.'

'Will you just let me finish?' said Sam angrily. 'And take me seriously, okay, this is serious. I mean it, it's serious business.'

'Very well,' sighed Vetinari, and moved his gaze from the ceiling to Vimes.

Sam cleared his throat again. 'I, er, um, I had dinner with her, one night, and she just, sort of… proposed it. You know, marriage and all. I was a little surprised, I can tell you that, never thought anyone would ever like me enough…' He cleared his throat once more. 'Er, anyway, we decided it would be a good idea. And then, well, I sort of, you know, had to, um, court her.' Sam fell silent.

Vetinari stared unblinkingly at him. 'You had to court her,' he repeated.

'Yes, er,' said Sam, shifting in his seat, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. 'It's, you know, a sort of standard. You woo a woman before you marry her. Apparently, they like it. I suppose, um, it sort of convinces them that you are, in fact, a good choice.'

Sam could have sworn that Vetinari hadn't actually blinked in several minutes. The stare was starting to annoy Sam.

'Look,' he said, a little more vehemently than he might have wanted to be, 'if you want a woman to say yes in front of the altar, you have to make _them_ want to say yes. You don't just stuff them into a dress and walk 'em up the isle. They do have a say in the matter, you know!'

Vetinari finally blinked. 'Are you trying to tell me something, Vimes?'

'You damn well know I do,' said Sam, red in the face. 'If you want Hanna Stein, she must want you, too.' There, it was said. Sam instantly coloured a deeper shade of red, this time with embarassement.

A very closed look had stolen over Vetinari's face. 'That is, if I may say so, none of your business,' he said coldly.

'It bloody well _is_,' said Sam. 'You're not the one having to deal with her tantrums, you're clever enough to keep her away. She comes to Sybil to curse you on the top of her voice. I've had to cover Young Sam's ears several times, but that didn't help, he still learned to say "dam neaky batud". It's got to stop, er, sir,' he quickly added, seeing the look on Vetinari's face.

Vetinari squared the paperwork on his desk. 'I'm certain you have more to do than interfere with my private life, Vimes.'

Sam rose, but in stead of leaving, he stepped forward and leaned over Vetinari's desk. 'You know I'm right,' he growled. 'You damn well do. I don't care if you admit it, or not, but, to hell with it! It won't work if you do it your way, it's not the way _human beings_ work. It's just a bit of advice, from man, so to say, to man.' He straightened up.

Vetinari stared at him. It wasn't his usual piercing stare, but a stare of mild amazement and wonder.

'Sir,' said Sam, pulling off a ridiculous salute. He turned on his heels and marched out of the room. Marching was always safe. He could feel Vetinari's stare on the back of his neck.

The clerk was still in the anteroom. 'You haven't changed his mood, have you, your grace?' he asked worriedly.

'Oh no,' said Sam, although he probably had. More importantly, he thought, going down the stairs, I hope I've changed his _mind_….

-END-

(Or not? I don't know. Of course, I'd also like to find out what Havelock will do after this, but I think that's mainly up to Mercator to decide.)


End file.
